Page 12 of Songbird: Black Kite
“What’s so special about that one?”
But I didn’t answer. I was too busy staring at the row of delicate feathers that had been sketched along the outside of the envelope. I checked the postmark, the date indicating that this one was sent almost a full two years after the first. I could tell, now that I was looking a little closer, because the artwork had matured in that time. Last time, she’d drawn a beautiful rendition of a feather, with strong lines and good definition, but it paled in comparison to what I was looking at now. The first envelope had displayed one large feather across the entire back side, but this time her work was much more refined, with a series of different feathers placed all along the outer edge of the envelope, like a frame. Holding the envelope up, I looked at the small feathers closely, marveling at her talent. The intricate lines of the feather’s barbs were clear and clean, the shading indicating they wereBlack Kitefeathers, just like the first time, and now they looked more like photographs than drawings.
She’d been working hard, and for some reason, I felt pride flooding my chest.
I didn’t know what it was about Wren’s letter that had stood out to me when I’d read it, but I found myself going back to it over and over in the last few days.
She’d been funny, brash, and bold in her writing, and I appreciated that, because that’s how I was when I wrote songs.
Fuck what people thought; I’d write what I felt, and that was it.
That’s how Wren’s letter had read to me, like she was surrounded by people who didn’t understand her, who wanted to change her, and she was raising a middle finger to the lot of them and doing what she wanted anyway.
It was totally rock and roll, and I respected the hell out of her for it.
I’d wanted to write back to her, but there were a few things that had stood in my way, one of which being the fact that she hadn’t put a return address on the envelope, so there was no easy way to find out exactly where it had come from.
The second thing was that the first letter had been sent over twenty years ago, meaning that sweet Wren Blackburn was well into her thirties now, probably married and no longer using her maiden name. She could be halfway across the country or even the world, living her best life and listening to our music on some fuckin’ oldies station, thinking about the good old days as she folded her husband’s Jockey shorts.
But even with all that in the way, I had still set the letter in the drawer of my desk, keeping it safe and separate for reasons I couldn’t understand.
So to find a second one, another letter from the funny kid who had dug in her heels when the world told her to change, felt like a stroke of luck.
Maybe I could follow Wren’s lead, digging in my heels a bit when the world was telling me that I was done. ThatBlack Kitewas done.
Maybe I could be bold again, too.
Chapter eight
Wren's Letter
Hey,Hawk,
It’s me, Wren.
Not that you’d remember me or anything; we’ve never even met. But I’ve written before, so you may know who I am. I drew some feathers again, so maybe that will remind you. I’m sure you get a shitton of mail, but I thought I’d mention it. You know, in case. Or whatever.
And now this has gotten hella awkward.
Anyway, I hope things are going better for you lately. I hated seeing the photos of you from the night you got arrested. I know the paparazzi suck, but punching people is only going to get you in more trouble, and while you do look good in orange, it would probably be difficult to write good music from prison.
And you need to write good music, man. Like, I know it’s not my place, but I’m the one who has to bust my ass at the Burger Barn so that I can buy the latestBlack Kitering tone, so if you could stop releasing soulless, hack-job songs, that would be great.
Honestly, though. Are you alright?
I mean, shit, I don’t know what I mean. Just that something feelsoffto me. Like you’re struggling.
You know I love you guys, but I gotta say, I feel like theHoly Trinityalbum was a bit of a cop out.
Okay, it was a major cop out. Come on, dude. The songs were overly processed, mega commercialized, and bland. Your lyrics onTake Flightwere pure poetry, and this was...not.
Shit, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be such a bitch about it. What do I know, right? I’m just a sixteen-year-old girl who flips burgers three nights a week. You’re the multi-platinum-selling recording artist with two Grammys under his belt.
I have no right to say anything about anything.
But, when I listen toTake Flight, it’s like I can feel what you felt when you wrote those songs. I know you felt passion and heartbreak, and hope. I mean, fuck.Inter-dimensionalwas my fucking anthem for a long time, reminding me that no matter how shitty things are, they will get better.
But there is no hope inHoly Trinity, and I can’t help but wonder why. Are you alright? It’s okay if you’re not, but you should know that I’d like to help. Not that I can, from a million miles away, but I guess...just know that when you’re feeling hopeless, that maybe, way over here...
